When Destiny Calls
by Erylle
Summary: Set in the Philippines, post-world war II. A story of a simple girl humbled by her fate. She must journey back to the village that she had fled in terror all those years ago, in order to fulfill her personal destiny. Oneshot.


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**When Destiny Calls**

_By: Erylle_

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Summary: Set in Philippines, post-world war II. A story of a simple girl humbled by her fate. She must journey back to the village that she had fled in terror all those years ago, in order to fulfill her personal destiny.

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NOTE: My apologies if this story is not exactly 100% politically correct or if the historical aspects are a bit off.

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**PART I:** **THE MIDDLE**

I was born inside a humble _nipa _hut. My mother told me that on the day of my birth, the midwife held me in her wrinkled arms and predicted great things ahead for me. The old woman, holding on to her pagan beliefs, saw a life fraught with hardships for me. The old woman cited that Maknongan, the chief god of our beliefs, had blessed my soul with some sort of unstained purity. And for that reason, she said that I would be as free as the wind that rushes through the fields; and that no one could incarcerate my soul. Although she didn't specify any more details, my mother took her words to heart and gave me my native name, _Immaya_, meaning "girl of the fields."

When World War II finally reached the hills of our province, and the Japanese had invaded, my mother, along with several other villagers abandoned the only home they knew in search of desperate refuge. Her skin was dark, dark as the mud covering our rice terraces – a color that was naturally common among the natives of Ifugao. We were a people whose skin was to be perpetually kissed by the sun. Contrastingly, as a newborn, my skin was still pale and untouched by the hot rays. As my mother later recounted, being pale-skinned would save my life.

"I was crossing the outskirts of Mount Napulawan. You were tied to my back with a sling. When suddenly, out of nowhere, a Japanese soldier had blundered his way through the forest and into my path. I was very, very afraid, especially for you." She stretched out her arms as a gesture to indicate the depth of her fear. "He was wearing a tan uniform, the same color of our rice terraces, so it was easy to overlook him despite all the precautions I took. He was holding a gun, and when he saw me, his eyes instantly lit up and the gun was raised in my direction."

My mother never got over the traumatizing event. Even as she speaks, a look of horror crosses her eyes. It takes her several seconds to compose herself and to continue her story.

"I was paralyzed by fear. I waited a_ very_ long time for the gunshot. But it never came." Here, she breathed a sigh of relief. "He shouted something in his language, totally foreign to me, and I realized he was pointing to the little bundle behind my back. He was pointing to you. I figured if I were to die, that at least you would be saved, and I was willing to do anything than to put you in any jeopardy. Anyways, he lowered his weapon, and warily, I untied you from your tied position and held you in my arms. You were still sleeping; you looked so peaceful in your slumber."

My mother, all thin and frail now, was a very strong woman at her peak time. From all the stories she had recounted to me, she had always displayed heroic qualities. She was never one to augment herself, nor brag, she was the epitome of modesty, and for that reason, I always believed her words without any doubt.

"And suddenly, the Japanese soldier spoke out again. This time, I could understand him. Although he was speaking very butchered-sounding Ifugao, I could understand bits of what he was saying.

"Baby. Name. Who father?" the weary soldier asked

I looked down to you and realized why the man had stopped himself from taking my life. It all made sense. I told him the truth of course, the truth being that you were conceived out of wedlock, and that your father had died. I don't know if he understood because his knowledge of the language was so very crude. I lied when I told him that your father was a Japanese soldier, and that you were a product of a rape-encounter.

He looked at me with distaste, but with you, there was an undeniable question with Japan. And even if you had not been born in that country, it was as if he saw you as a comrade. With your pale skin, and very black eyes, it did not even look like you were the child of someone so dark as me.

The stocky man hissed, his eyes turned into slits.

Despite his mockery, he seemed merciful. And to answer his question, I told him your name was Mikan. Don't ask me why, but it was the only Japanese word that I knew." Mikan. Mandarin Oranges.

From then on, her leathery-dark face and the inflections of her voice made it clear that although she did harbor hatred for the Japanese, since they took many lives of her relatives, she was particularly grateful for that one soldier who chose to spare her life, and let her pass unharmed. It was probably the greatest gift that had ever been bestowed to her. Later that same day, when she crossed over Mount Napulawan, she bowed onto the ground and thanked Mah-nongan several times for his generosity.

My mother eventually found a refugee camp that embarked on a journey to Manila, a city of which was the capital of the Philippines. There the brunt of the war was felt less, and there, most of the citizens lead peaceful lives. She was use to farming on rice terraces of our mountain fields, so she did not have any skill that she could transfer to the city in order to earn a living. To make ends meet, and to support a newborn baby, my mother was lowered to a state of desperation. It was dangerous for unmarried women, or any kind of woman, to roam the streets during any time of the day, for fear of attack or worse –rape.

When my mother arrived in Manila, it didn't take long for her to be detained by Japanese officials. None of the Japanese officials questioned my ethnicity. They agreed unanimously that I was half-Japanese, from the whiteness of my skin, my feigned-ethnicity added more respectability to the status of my mother and me. Although they scorned the Filipinos, they couldn't deny fair treatment to the mother of someone of their descent. Apparently, instead of sentencing her to death by gunshot, they had been lenient and sent her off to be a "comfort woman" in a comfort station. She never described the details of this job, but even though I know it had been traumatizing and horrific experience for her, she said it was worth it since she was able to keep both of us alive. They didn't pay her, but in exchange for her services, she, along with other women, were at least given food and shelter. As hard as it is to believe, they were better off than most Filipinos at the time. Most of them were living in war-torn provinces, often maimed, and wandering around aimlessly. That was not the kind of life my mother wanted to live.

From then on, the Japanese reign took over all of Philippines, only for a brief moment. But for that brief time spent, my mother was able to pass me off as a war baby. Like many other women at the time who were raped by the Japanese soldiers and conceived babies, they were usually treated a little more lenient in the eyes of the Japanese tyrants. Although the Japanese occupation lasted a mere three to four years, some of the Japanese decided to make Philippines their homes even though most returned back to their home country.

At this point, my mother took to odd-jobs like washing the laundry of local townspeople, and eventually bought a modest house with looming white gate to deter burglars. She bought a coop of hens and learned to breed them and sell them when they got plump enough at the local market. This business-stunt alone was enough to sustain us through the upcoming years.

Even after Philippines had been freed from the hands of the tyrants, my mother still took to great lengths to preserve my white skin. It was also at the same time that pale skin was prized among the Filipino culture. Having pale skin was an indication of status. Most of the rich and powerful had pale skin, and of course, everyone wanted to be perceived as a person of influence. Pale-skin was even more prominent in a country where most citizens have colored skin, a noticeable effect from living in a country situated right on the equator.

Every night, as I grew up as a child, my mother would come home from the apothecary and gently rubbed some new ointment over my face and limbs that the lady over the counter had guaranteed would "white any type of skin". Most of the mothers at the time, and my mother was no exception, would deliberately force their children to stay inside, instead of outside in the sun, as an extra precaution to ensure their skin was as pale as possible. My mother's hard work did not go unrewarded, and by the time I was in my teens, I was as pale as the moon.

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In 1955, I turned fifteen-years-old. It was relatively around the same time that I was introduced to Hotaru, through my mother's correspondence. Hotaru's mother, Maria, had also worked as a comfort woman during the time of the war, and Maria told us that Hotaru was conceived illegitimately. The father, a powerful Japanese general, left the country and his newborn daughter as soon as the war ended. The only trace of his presence was Hotaru's name, he insisted that he had the right to name his child. Maria hated the name, and would have liked to have called her Mary, in respect to her own name, but Hotaru had gotten so used to responding to her Japanese name that any chance of renaming her was too late.

Hotaru was truly half-Japanese. She was one of the many growing population of children who had been conceived through illegitimate fathers, paramours, most who had abandoned them as soon as they had the chance. Hotaru vaguely remembered her father. Sometimes I would ask her if she missed him, but she was so unreadable with her impassive countenance that it was hard to tell whether she told the truth or not. She told me that it was impossible to miss something you never had. We were at the age when carving out an identity and making sense of the world was our primary objective. So at the time, I found what Hotaru had said to be extremely philosophical.

I never really told Hotaru about the truth behind my lineage. In a way, I was a war baby like her too. My mother frequently told me bits about my father: he was a humble farmer, with unusually light skin, and was hard-working; general characteristics. However, he died in a puzzling manner.

One day, my mother came home to our _nipa _hut and found him unconscious. There were no signs of struggle, indicating that foul play hadn't been involved. But there was also no sign of an incipient illness. Whatever it was, the villagers were at a loss to explain his death. After that, I never asked my mother much about him. I could tell that although I was entitled to ask questions about my birth father, that it deeply pained my mother to recall the details that had once so scarred her. From then on, my father had become a topic of taboo.

Hotaru and I bonded the instant we first met.

I remember her mother, Maria, vividly. She had curly black hair that fell to her shoulders and wide set eyes. She always visited my mother frequently, but on one summer occasion, she had brought somebody with her. Hotaru was a tall girl, almost towering her mother, yet she seemed too shy to communicate. She always stood behind Maria, as if for protection, to shield her from unwarranted associations. Our mothers left us alone. Giving us "alone time" would supposedly help speed up our relation.

As ridiculous as it sounded, it actually worked.

It was around Hotaru's fourth visit to my house when she finally opened her thin mouth to speak. In the previous weeks she visited, I had tried very hard to converse with her. But she always remained silent. Her silence was so overwhelming that I wondered if she was mute, and perhaps Maria had left out this detail so as not to embarrass her daughter. Whatever the reason was, it didn't deter me from talking my head off when I was around Hotaru.

I talked to her about a lot of things. Her silence was actually welcoming for once, since I was able to talk about things that I held dear without interruption. Eventually, I started opening up more and more to her, telling her about the deep hurt I experienced before and after the war. How much I wanted to go back and see the rice terraces that my mother had been telling me about; and especially how much I longed to see my home village again.

Then, one day, I told her about my hopes and dreams. I told her how I wanted to live a life of freedom where I could do anything I wanted without fearing the consequences. I wanted to say whatever I wanted to dirty men on the streets if they offended me, instead of being chastised by my mother for breaching propriety. I wanted to be educated. I wanted to contribute something to Philippines that would make the Filipinos proud. I didn't know what I wanted to be yet, but I knew that I wanted to be someone who helped alleviate the burdens of others. I told her of my desire to be rich one day. If I were a millionaire, there would be no hungry nights for the children on the streets. I would share my wealth generously. Anyone who knew me would live a life of comfort. All in all, there would be no more worries.

I guess my dreams fascinated Hotaru, because more and more, she began to open up. The first time I heard her speak was when she told me about her dreams of invention.

"I want to be an inventor when I grow up." She told me over a cup of tea that my mother had brewed for us. We were sitting in the front of my house on plastic chairs that had gone brown with dirt. Even though Hotaru was only my age, she was mature beyond her years. I secretly envied her austerity.

I was slow to catch on, "What would you make then?" I asked naively.

Hotaru pondered for a moment, and looked at me as if deciding whether or not she would trust me with a secret. Carefully, she told me and watched my face for any sign of reaction, "I think I'd like to work in technology and create wonderful things, like how Alexander Graham Bell made the telephone and how Thomas Jefferson made the light bulb."

I tried not to show in my face, but a feeling of incredulity stirred in my bosom. Hotaru had absurdly unrealistic dreams. I wanted to tell her so, but kept my mouth shut instead. If she was able to put up with my own wild dreams, then I could put up with hers.

We passed the next summer of our sixteenth year in peace and silence. We were both working odd jobs like our mothers as well. Hotaru took a job as a convenience store clerk, at a run-down store near her house. She was getting paid less than two dollars a day since at that time, there was no such thing as minimum wage.

In a way I was better off. Like my mother, I washed my neighbours clothes and got paid a generous amount because they knew me personally. I remember washing Lola Adelina's dirty shirts and her exclaiming excess praise for my hard-working personality.

"_Anak, masipag magtrabaho ka."_ Lola would praise me, her wrinkled eyes smiling at me.

Lola was fragile for her age. She was only in her fifties, but she used a cane to walk since her sense of balance was not as it had been. Her back was stooped permanently so it appeared as if she was hunchback. Even though she suffered many maladies, she never failed to show kindness to those around her. She exuded an aura that attracted people. By the time she first employed me, also the time when I first met her, she had several grand-children running around her house, and daughters and sons welcoming me into their home. Working for Lola Adelina Delacruz had always been my favourite shift of the day.

It was more beyond her geniality that drew me to her. Like me, Lola Adelina had been born in the mountain provinces. Specifically, she was born in Baguio. She was fluent in several dialects such as Ilocano, Tuwali, and Tagalog. She had acquired all those languages as she grew up, moving from city to city due to the political instability of Philippines during her time.

Lola Adelina loved to tell me stories about Ifugao. She too remembered the rice patties, the cold weather and scorching summer heat, and most of all, she would tell me about the Ifugao culture. My own mother was too busy working odd-jobs to ever educate me with my past. Lola Adelina was the best substitute.

Every time I came to wash her laundry, she would pull up a chair and tell me all about the Ifugao clothing she would wear as a child: a brightly colored _tapis_ that covered the lower part of her body, and a bandeau-like cloth she would wrap around her upper body. She told me stories of the native dances she would partake in, and when she would describe them, it almost felt like I was transported back to my village, as if I were part of the drum-ceremony and the yodelling voices striving to keep a rhythm.

When my senior year in high school rolled around, Hotaru and I quit our jobs in order to focus on the demands of our classes. Saying farewell to Lola Adelina was excruciatingly difficult but we both promised to keep in touch.

For our senior year of high school, Hotaru and I had to move to a neighbouring school in Manila. The school we had previously attended whose name was literally "Alice in Wonderland High School" had shut down due to lack of funds. We were then transferred then transferred to another public school in Greenpark. Although our new school was a little farm from our homes, Hotaru and I diligently used a _jeepney_ to travel to and from school. We would rise every morning at 6 am, attired in our white and black school uniforms, and meet each other in a designated spot. The _jeepney _driver would drop us off a block away from school, and we'd walk the rest of the way.

Getting educated at that time was completely unheard of. Most of the kids my age had stopped schooling after their elementary years to work back-breaking jobs in factories to support their families. Somehow, by luck and by force, my own mother allowed me to stay in school on the condition that I finish High school. So when Hotaru and I graduated in early 1957, both our mothers were suffused with pride at our achievement. What next?

College was never on my mind since it was too expensive, but Hotaru knew that she definitely wanted to educate herself. She was passionate about learning and always excelled in difficult subjects such as mathematics. Although Hotaru was bright and precocious, she was rejected from the University of the Philippines – the most prestigious school of the country. Even though the rejection was a big blow to her ego, she was contented enough when she was admitted into Far Eastern University to study Mechanical Engineering.

My mother never pushed my education. In fact, she never valued education at all. It was not that she was inhibiting me in any way. She just hadn't realized the value of education yet. Like her mother and grandmother before her, my own mother was uneducated, and for her, it made no difference in her life.

"If you want to go to college, then do what you feel you need to do." My mother advised me. She was allowing me an opportunity and though as unsure as I was, I took it. To compensate for the heavy cost, I worked odd-jobs on end with my mother finally finding a stable job as a nanny for a wealthy family in the suburbs of Manila. They were a Chinese-Filipino family who needed a live-in maid, and my mother's easy-going personality had impressed the Chua family. They had allowed her to stay and paid her a generous sum of money.

Fortuitous as this was, this meant that my mother came home very late at night and rose early in the morning. I couldn't help but feel guilty for knowing that she was exerting herself for me.

With much toil and sweat, I saved enough money that year to pay for the my first-year college expenses. Hotaru and I were leaving for the same university together. I was to major in Journalism. I don't know why I chose Journalism over any other field of study, I guess at the time it was the only subject that seemed to pique my interest so I went with it.

At this part of my life, everything went by quickly. One minute I was a timid first-year student at Far Eastern University, and then fast forward three years later, I was holding my diploma and raising my square academic cap in the air to celebrate my graduation. Hotaru and I flung through our courses. I struggled, obviously, whereas Hotaru seemed to breeze by. I pulled all-nighters and developed severe insomnia, whereas Hotaru slept like a baby. Our academic experience was the stark contrast of each other. Hotaru was the perfect student, and I, well, I was arguable subpar. Nonetheless, we had made it – we had graduated together.

Receiving our diploma and shaking hands with the Dean, was one of the handful of times I'd seen Hotaru smile.

As I stood there in my long robe and laughing with my classmates, I couldn't help but look back at my life. I could still remember having trouble learning how to read, sitting on my mother's lap and waiting as she patiently enunciated every word in the story book for me to follow. And now – now I had endured a rigorous four-year program and although I didn't graduate with honors like Hotaru, I still graduated. It was arguably one of the proudest moments in my life.

We were adults now, and sadly, shortly after I graduated from university, my mother passed away. She was only thirty-five-years-old; barely a wrinkle on her forehead. Her death had been a major blow to me.

For a time, I was inconsolable. The only person who could coax me out of my room was Hotaru.

"Mikan, please come out, we need to talk."

No response.

"Mikan, I swear to God if you don't open the door, I'm going to kick it open."

"…" I get up, "Just go away…"

I hear my doorknob rattle suspiciously and after a couple of seconds, Hotaru waltzes in as if she had not just committed a crime.

"What are you doing?! I could call the cops on you right now and charge your with ' breaking and entering'" Hotaru pockets one of her mechanical inventions in her bag. It's obvious that has a talent of creating an invention for every purpose, even for picking locks.

Hotaru scoffed a little and rolled her eyes, she was used to my vain threats. She sat down on the foot of my bed and tried not to make eye contact. My face was buried in my pillows and I refused to look at her anyways. I hated to see the sorrow in her eyes too, and if I were to see her sad, Hotaru – who had never shed a tear in my presence, ever – I think I would've broken down and cried too.

It may not have seemed like it, but Hotaru deeply loved my mother too. My mother treated Hotaru as if she were her second daughter. Our families were forever bound together, no matter what.

"What did she say to you?" Hotaru asked quietly, "You know, before she passed away?"

I took a deep breath and stole a glance at her face, peeking through the gap of my pillow. "She said to go back to my roots. She wants me to go back to Ifugao." I buried my face in my pillow again. I was frustrated with myself. I didn't know why my mother had made such an absurd request. Ifugao was the province, the rural areas, being raised in Manila, I was a _city_ _girl _now. I wouldn't deign ever go back to the poverty awaiting for me.

Hotaru seemed to have read my mind. "I guess we all have to go back to our roots sometime."

"What?"

"When we die, our souls go back to the place we were born. To the place it all started."

I never understood Hotaru. She was always too philosophical for me.

"Maybe your destiny is awaiting you there."

I jolted in surprise and narrowed my eyes towards her. "Who told you about destinies?"

She looked at me placidly and inscrutably, her eyes and voice were calm when she spoke to me. My apparent agitated behavior didn't seem to have ruffled her feathers. "Everyone has a destiny. "

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**PART II: TO THE BEGINNING**

They say that the cycle of life is a circle. To explain: we are born, take our first breath, learn, go through heartbreak, enjoy the simple pleasures of life, live – and then we die. Repeat.

I'd like to attest that this is true.

Life is unpredictable. Life is subjected to so much change, but we cannot deny its basic template.

In the end, I had to go back to the beginning. Back to the place that I had fled twenty-two years in search for a better life. Back the place where my ancestors before me had lived. These were the lands that carried generations and generations of my family, and yet, I had known nothing about it.

I was a little apprehensive prior to my departure. I had no money – since I hadn't applied for a job yet, and I had no idea what I was going to do when I got there. What if the trip would have been a total failure? What if I had just wasted my time? All these insecure thoughts swarmed my mind.

All that I had remembered about the land of my childhood was the green foliage, and the cold breeze that would ripple through my skin. The rest, from the hills and mountains, to the stray cats and dogs on the streets – those were information that my mother and Lola Adelina had fed me.

Essentially, I would be a foreigner in my own native home.

Besides my father and mother, I knew of no one else in my family. My mother never spoke much about my grandparents on either side. This was partly due to the fact that my father and her married illegitimately, despite the protestations of their parents, and lived together unmarried for many years. This brought so much shame to both pairs of my grandparents, that they figured cutting contact from my parents would be best.

"Here, take this." Hotaru stuffed paper into my hands.

I looked down and my eyes widened when I realized that she had given me a wad of cash.

"Don't," She pressed her finger to my mouth to shut me up, "Don't worry. I just got a job as an Engineer at NaPoCor. It's an early payment. Just take it and shut up."

NaPoCor. National Power Corporation – that had been a prominent company in Philippines; similar to the prestige of working in Microsoft in North America. Only the best of the best are chosen.

"Oh, Hotaru, that sounds wonderful! I always knew that if someone were to succeed in life, it would have been you." I beamed. I was ineffably happy for my friend.

Hotaru gave me a wan smile, her purple eyes as penetrating as it had been in the peak of her youth. In a fleeting moment, I thought I saw her younger self, at fifteen-years-old, the first time we met, standing by her. I could almost see how much my friend had changed along with me. She was taller. Not like she wasn't tall before, but she was respectably a head taller than me. Her long hair that she prided of having all those years ago, was exchanged for a short pixie-like hair-cut. We weren't the same timid girls that we had been the first time we met.

We had gone to being poor girls living in destitute circumstances to self-made and educated young women. Through all these years, I had been grateful for Hotaru's companionship. I could never have imagined myself bereft of her presence. She was as essential to me as air is needed for life. I just – well – let's just say a life without Hotaru is a life that I would not like to live.

Without speaking, I stepped onto the tips of my toes and hugged her fiercely. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

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I'm sitting on a jeepney packed with other Filipinos fanning themselves with self-made fans. I am minding my own business in the backseat, pretending to look occupied with a couple of papers on my lap.

When new passengers enter the jeepney, they immediately stare at me and give me scornful looks. Their first thought is that I am Japanese. That I am part of the country that had killed so many of their relatives; that I am a blood-hungry fiend who has no conscience.

"Go back to your own country, you dog," The most ignorant ones would say. Hotaru and I heard all kinds of insults growing up for our pale-skin and oriental-like features. But in total, I forgive these people who strike vicious words at us. They are the ones who still have fresh wounds and fresh memories of the war that had ended not too long ago.

Sometimes I would politely correct them, "I am pure Filipino." I would tell them in perfect Tagalog. That was enough to convince them of my credibility.

I didn't know what I would expect when I stopped in Baguio, a city only a couple miles from Mount Napulawan, where I lived. I had to take a tricycle the rest of the way.

The people of Baguio were more oriental-looking like me. Mainly because many of the Japanese and Chinese had intermarried in that area over the years to the point that their descendants, although Filipino, bore oriental features. Most of the people I met had thin, slit-like eyes, and flat noses. This was the exotic beauty of Baguio.

I didn't know how to speak Ilocano, but thankfully, the locals were well-versed enough in Tagalog to understand me.

I found a cheap tricycle driver who was willing to drive me to the base of the Mountain for a mere sixty pesos. I handed him the money, and his greedy fingers snatched it away before I could make a second decision. The old-man, almost the age of Lola Adelina I presumed, was a taciturn driver. He never spoke much as the tricycle bumbled its way over rocks and pot-holes on the dirt path.

Once we reached our destination, it was as if he was glad he was done with me, and left before I had the chance to express my gratitude.

It was sundown when I was dropped off at the base of the mountain. In front of me, I could see a dark forest with trees growing in a lopsided manner. I could hear faint animal shrieks in the distance and the sound of the leaves when the wind blew across the whole forest.

Being fully present in the moment, it was amazing to recall that my mother had to cross through such an immense path fraught with danger of death, with a baby slung over her shoulder, in order to get to safety.

Even though there was no constant threat present, like that of my mother had to face, I was excessively nervous.

Crossing the mountain and getting to the other side safely could have very well been a test from the Heavens, since I had a terrible premonition that I would not come out alive.

Nevertheless, I sucked up my petty qualms and forced myself to make the first step.

The crunch of the grass beneath my feet was a new sensation. The forest seemed to have sprung alive all around me. I was more conscious of the distant animal calls, and the singing of the cicadas stuck on the trees.

Then I saw a clearing.

I didn't know what to expect when I saw the abandoned _nipa _huts scattered upon the different planes of the mountain. Some had bamboo walls cave in from years of disuse, and others were lucky enough to at least look inhabitable.

There tens of hundreds, or even more huts strewn across my vision. Any one of them could have been where my life had started. In all my imaginations of my beginnings, I had expected something more…majestic, in comparison to the rubble that stood before me.

I tried to imagine a glorious time when these huts held families waiting for the men to come home from a hard day's work farming on the rice terraces. I tried to imagine the numerous children playing makeshift games with sticks and stones, with the sun beating down on their coarse brown skin like Lola Adelina would recount to me.

But that picturesque image vanished as soon as it had come, and before me, I saw decay. It was hard to believe that people had even inhabited this area at all.

Yet, I couldn't help but realize how so much of my life had changed from its original destiny. It's hard to come to terms with the fact that had not the war happened, I would not have moved to Manila, my father may still be alive, and I would never have met Hotaru. I guess this is what my mother meant when she told me that good things can come out of bleak situations.

I walked along the rows of huts surrounding me and explored some of them freely. Each house was bereft of furniture and those that did have furnishing were left with broken pots and dirty rags that were disintegrating into dust.

I walked until my feet began to rub against the soles of my shoes and though my calves felt strained, I walked on anyways.

They say that a feeling overwhelms you – perhaps instinctually – when you just _know_ something. The same feeling when you _know_ that the person you are with is _the one_, and that the dress you're wearing is _the wedding dress_. I guess all I can say is that standing in front of a crumbling hut with leaves gone yellow from age, I just _knew_ that this was the hut that I was born in.

Some people may argue that it was because of the description I had been given earlier of the place, but no, to me it was inherently a feeling that told me that _this was it_. There is no other explanation.

"I knew you would come back someday,"

I jumped and faltered in my balance, my pulse raced a little.

The voice came from within the dark concave of the hut. Soon, the owner of the disembodied voice came into the light where I could clearly see her face. The old woman had leathery skin that was so much like my mother's. She had straggly white hair that was pinned back on both sides by a traditional clip. Over her shoulders was a brightly embroidered shawl – red, yellow, and black – the native colors of Ifugao.

With an unconfident voice, I asked the woman for her name.

"That isn't important. What is important is that you came back. Back to where I had always knew you were perpetually drawn to."

"How do you know me?"

The old woman scoffed, "Child, I helped you breath your first breath of life. I am the reason that your name is _Immaya_. I predicted your destiny."

"The midwife?" I asked incredulously.

She nodded in return, beckoning me to come inside the hut with her timeworn hands. I consented.

"So you came to find out your destiny did you? Everyone has a destiny, you know. Just like the bird was born to sing and to fly into unreachable limits, we humans were born to fulfill a certain niche. None of us were born without a reason. Some were born with more important destinies than others, whatever the case, we must eventually fulfill those callings be threatened to live a life of ignorance.

When I didn't say anything, she continued.

"When I first held you in my arms all those years ago, you did not cry. It scared your mother and I because we thought you had died. Instead, you stared into our faces with your eyes filled with vacant sweetness. I thought I saw a message from the great Maknongan in your face. Yes…I'm sure of it. All I can tell you child, is that you were given the gift of freedom, you will always be free to decide who you want to be and what your future lies ahead of you. You are like the wind that rushes through the fields of our rice terraces: unpredictable, capricious and headstrong. You can destroy crops with your anger, or you can provide a gentle breeze of relief on a hot day. Haven't you ever amazed yourself when you realizes how unconventional of a life you've lived?"

I thought about my dreams to engage in philanthropy. How I had been educated in the city and worked odd-jobs to support myself. All that would not have happened to a native Ifugao resident.

"So listen to me when I tell you about your destiny…"

I leaned in so close that my face almost touched her leathery skin. My breath was increasing. All the moments in my life had lead up to this pinnacle of an epoch.

"…you must find out yourself."

I looked up at her in confusion.

"What?" I lowered my eyes in deep thought. I tried to discern the meaning of her enigmatic speech.

The old woman's voice cackled as she spoke, "Your destiny is for you to decide. Like I said, unlike most of us, you have the privilege of carving out your own path in life. You will never be restrained by the fetters of fate."

The idea of directing a destiny was unthinkable. It almost bordered absurdity. After all, wasn't your destiny supposed to direct you?

But the old woman was adamant, and before I could press her further, she was no longer there.

I jumped up in surprise. She had just been beside me a minute ago, and my eyes only drifted away from her focus once. It was impossible to have escaped in such short notice without any indication. I ran out of the hut and scoured the surroundings. The wind was blowing rather harshly, and the grass swayed with it, but other than that, there was no one around for miles. She was gone like the wind.

Puzzled, but somehow accepting that what I had seen may have been a vision, I settled back into the musty hut. The woman's disappearance didn't ruffle me. My mother had prepared to experience these things. We, the Ifugao, were extremely spiritual people and the fact that I had this preternatural experience was nothing unheard of among our people. For me, I took it as an omen for the great things that lie ahead of me.

As for my destiny, I guess I knew all along what my calling in life would entail. Just as Hotaru had the urge to pursue invention, I had different temptations in different fields. I didn't want to be tied down to a sedentary life, but nor did I want to live like a nomad.

I saw in silence, closing my eyes in deep meditation.

Somehow, I knew all along. I knew from the insinuations that my mother had left me all those years when she spoke about my lineage. When she spoke about the mysterious death of my father, I _just knew_. From the way that my skin had always been just _too_ white, or my features too _oriental._ As clear as I know that the sun will rise in morning, and that the moon will appear luminescent in the night sky, I knew that my father was that Japanese soldier that my mother had met long ago. Although she twisted the story to make it appear as if their first encounter was on Mount Napulawan, I knew that their story must've gone farther back than that.

And although I had no idea how I would get there, let alone find him among millions of people in the foreign enemy country in the North, I knew it was my personal destiny to do it.


End file.
